


Journey's End

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Angst, Hiatus, M/M, Post-Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes, in France, and Watson, in London, are pining for each other, little knowing Fate is whipping something up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey's End

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "The Final Problem" &amp; "The Empty House."

One

December, 1893

Montpellier, France

_"…him whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man whom I have ever know."_

Running the tips of his fingers over the printed words, Sherlock Holmes breathed out a soft sigh and turned back the pages of _The Strand_ to find the beginning of the story. He wanted to deny the ache that welled up as he read Watson's words - Watson doubting himself, thinking his stories an inadequate tribute; Watson writing, _"…that event which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to fill."_ \-- but that, at least, was a level of duplicity to which he could not stoop.

The magazine was in the packet sent from Mycroft -- to Monsieur Vassily Petrov, in point of fact. M. Petrov was his current alias, now the explorer Sigerson had been discarded; one he supported by letting his black hair grow long and unruly, and his beard become equally prodigious. He did not care for the somewhat unkempt appearance, but then cared even less for the idea of being shot through the head, and under the circumstances could be content for the moment.

Mycroft's letter included the details of the campaign to posthumously salvage the reputation of Professor Moriarty, while discrediting that of Sherlock Holmes. This contemptible action had infuriated Watson.

_"He came round to see me," _Mycroft had written, _"seeking my counsel on what to do. I advised him that his own pen could do more than any court of law, and that he could pay you no greater tribute than to set down the events as they happened. I confess to you, dear brother, that my motives were ulterior."_

Here, Holmes deduced there had been a pause of some few minutes, his brother hesitating over his next words. Resuming after some consideration, Mycroft wrote, _"You should know, I think, that Dr. Watson has suffered another loss. His wife, who had been expecting their first child, has died, as did the child. I could not help remarking that he appeared a very altered man from the one you first brought to me in the Melas affair. Under the circumstances, I thought perhaps writing of his adventures with you would provide him some respite…"_

Yes, because what could be more therapeutic for Watson than recounting how Sherlock Holmes had gone to his death at the Reichenbach Falls?

There were times, after close association with his brother, that Holmes felt inclined to give himself airs in the realm of human warmth and affection.

The rest of Mycroft's letter had informed him that Colonel Moran was currently in London, _"…plying his skill at cards at his clubs. I am having him monitored, of course, but to date there has been no evidence of his involvement in any criminal enterprise. I shall, of course, keep you informed and alert you immediately the situation alters."_

And if it didn't? If affairs remained at this stalemate indefinitely, what was he to do? It had already been two long years (nearing three), and every day that passed and found him still in hiding, away from London - _away fromWatson,_ his conscience whispered, and he could deny it - the more intolerable his circumstances became. His research into coal tar derivatives occupied him, yes, but he could not fool himself it was in any way fulfilling.

He hadn't anticipated that. He had thought he would find relief, of a kind, in his flight from Reichenbach, from Moran … from Watson. He hadn't, not for a long time afterward, examined what action he would have taken had not Colonel Moran's marksmanship pushed him to immediate action. Of course, he supposed, he would have rejoined Watson; of course they would have returned to England, triumphant over bringing down the Professor … of course he would have been quite content to return to those empty rooms at Baker Street, observing as the chasm widened ever further between himself and Watson's life with Mary.

He wondered precisely when he had grown so proficient at deceiving himself. Not before Watson; he felt sure the skill had developed since then.

Looking at Mycroft's letter again, those stark words about Mary, Holmes surprised himself (and was grateful for it) by experiencing no sensation of triumph. There had been times he might have welcomed news that the former Miss Morstan had left Watson; had in some way proved herself unworthy and forced a separation. This… He shook his head. This outcome was not one he had hoped for, and Mycroft's words, careful as they were, conveyed more than enough for him to imagine the pain Watson was enduring.

Perhaps he had erred too far on the side of caution. John Watson would sooner lay down his life than ever betray him by even the slightest action. Even the rising of the sun in the east was less constant than _that._

Finding paper and pen, he began to write:

_My dear Watson,_

If my brother has prepared you as I shall instruct him to do, this should not be too great a shock, and I trust that what surprise it does retain, it will be a pleasant one for you.

I write to you from Montpellier. I--

Here he broke off, though, words eluding him for one of the very few times he could recall.

What on earth could he tell Watson, in this medium of stark ink and paper, that could possibly make amends for having let Watson believe him dead all this time?

Crumpling up the sheet of paper, he flung it into the grate, let the fire gobble it up.

The fire was a strong one, but he couldn't seem to feel its warmth.

Standing at the window, he looked out at the cold, dark streets, let them transform in his mind into Baker Street, seeing Watson alight from a hansom, coming home to him, eager to set off on their next adventure.

He blinked, and it was gone. Only the cold remained.

=======

Two

_an extract from Dr. Watson's journal_

31st March, 1894

I have grown careless in keeping up with this of late. My practice, if not thriving, is at least sufficient to provide me distraction enough to keep me occupied in mind and spirit so there is no time for dwelling on other matters.

It's strange, though, how fate would seem to conspire against my intentions, for the morning papers bring word of the death, under very mysterious circumstances, of the Hon. Ronald Adair. From the accounts, it would appear he was shot whilst in an entirely closed room, so that one can only imagine the ultimate verdict will be that he died at his own hand.

Still, there are elements to the case that cannot help but strike my curiosity. H.. **Holmes** would, no doubt, furnish an indisputably correct explanation of what transpired over our breakfast, and be able to clap hands on the culprit, were villainy involved, by afternoon.

Foolish of me, but… I think I shall go round to the place later, No. 427 Park Lane. I think I might…

=======

Three

7th January, 1895; just past midnight

The sheets might be more entangled than their bodies. Sherlock Holmes briefly ponders this, but finds his thoughts soon distracted by a caressing hand, stroking inquisitively along his ribcage. The skillful surgeon's fingers that had sewn up his wound earlier, now skirt the edges of the bandage, even as the fine, fair hairs of a mustache tickle his skin. He sighs as warm, gentle lips explore his chest and move slowly upward along his throat. Those lips brush the corner of his mouth, glide along a sharp cheekbone, skim along an eyebrow - drawing away for a moment, only to alight once more, teasing at his own lips, again and again. He surrenders, parts his lips to the dazzling pressure of this other mouth; parts them to the persistently questing tongue, and does not even think to muffle the groan of pleasure that escapes him.

He does smile at the irritable tone in his friend's voice as Watson says, "I do wish you would take greater care, Holmes. I shouldn't like to bury you again."

Sobering at that, Holmes looks at him, seeing censure - seeing relief behind that - and nods. "I shall be careful. And who knows, perhaps in another couple of years I shall retire to raise bees."

"Oh, yes, I'd like to see that," Watson says, clearly not believing a word of it. "You've only just turned forty-one, Holmes.

Holmes smiles, kisses him right over his heart, not far from the Watson's own scar. "I may just surprise you, my dear Watson."

"Of that," Watson pulls him closer, "I have no doubt."

He rests there, listening to the steady beat of that strong heart, and smiles again, daring to hope for forty-one more years of this.

end


End file.
